Replies of Silence
by Jananae
Summary: There are no answers and no replies. There is only silence. Set post-"Aliyah" through "Reunion". Two-parter. In-canon. Tiva.
1. Regret

**A/N--I wouldn't call this a SongFic, but this piece is _inspired _by Steve Conte's "No Reply", a gorgeous song that really seemed to fit the situation post-"Aliyah" through "Reunion" (.com/watch?v=4Nd13Ob9Bgc). I have to admit that at some points, this piece is borderline bleak, but I think it suits Tony and Ziva's thoughts pretty well during this time, so I make no apologies for that; I just hope it isn't on the angsty side. Also, just like in my oneshot "Not a Present", I played with parallelism again because it so interesting to use in regards to Tony and Ziva. Hopefully this short story gives some insight into both of them for for this very dark time in their lives.**

The days blur together. The terrorists (all of them men) blur together. The beatings blur together. There is no more sense of time for me. Because, really, what use do I have for "time" here? I have long since ignored the rising and falling of the sun and have instead opted for a sense of indifference. Numbness. This lack of feeling does not make the pain leave any faster or allow me to fall into fitful, short-lived dreams any better, but it does help me cope.

Why, though? Why find ways to deal with this situation if there is no point? To what end am I coping for? There have been no replies, no attempts to reclaim me. I do not know how much time has passed, but I do know it has been long enough. Long enough to formulate and attempt a mission to pull me from this place. But I have neither seen nor heard anything to support this. Not from Mossad, not from my father.

As the bodies of the concept of Time pile themselves around me, I can do nothing but think. Think about what I had done. Think about what I had dedicated my life to. But I have been sitting here, and I have no answers. And I do not find them either.

What was all this for? What have I been fighting for all this time? I once thought I was doing this for the weak. I was fighting the wrong to protect the innocent. But what does my being here accomplish? Has it all just been a waste?

When the beatings first began, my dreams here consisted mainly of thoughts of my homeland. My organization. My father. But as the life and hope were slowly drained from me with every fist to my already-bruised face and every kick to my already-cracked ribs, I gave up thinking of these things. They were not coming for me. _He_ was not coming for me. I was abandoned, left to rot and suffer the daily torments of these faceless men.

So I occupy my mind with thoughts of, what I perceive, as happier times, places, and people. The past four years. NCIS. Gibbs, Abby, McGee, Ducky, Jimmy... And Tony. These memories have inevitably become tainted with regret and anger towards myself. Regret for what I had lost. Anger for the fact that I had done this to myself.

I had been foolish and stubborn, too prideful to admit my wrongs and shortcomings. I was never willing to apologize or accept the apologies of the man who had been my partner for the entire length of the time I spent as Mossad Liaison Officer. And now I will never have that chance. For there has been only silence. There are no replies to be heard, and I have no hope left to hold onto.

* * *

The days blur together. The new applicants (all of them women) blur together. The cases blur together. There's no sense of time for me anymore. A meth addict here, a dead sailor there. What's the point in keeping track of time when there are no meaningful landmarks to base it around?

It's amazing how two words can change everything. Two words can almost completely destroy your world and the hope you'd been holding out for. "No survivors." She was gone, and my daily life transformed itself into a meaningless haze.

Computer stuff. Autopsy reports. Words, things, stuff, and emotions. None of it made sense to me. And it didn't really matter that it didn't make sense to me. An essential piece was missing. And I couldn't find it. I _failed_ to find it. I tried to bring her back, but I tried too late. I could have tried earlier, and I should have tried harder. Could have. _Should_ have. Past-tense. I missed my chance. Now all I feel is sorry for myself and angry at myself. Sorry for what I'd let go of, and angry that it was all my fault.

I knew Michael Rivkin couldn't be trusted. I knew he was using Ziva for her father's gain. But maybe I should have handled it differently. What if I had brought back-up? What if I had just aimed to wound, not kill? What if? _What if_? My mind's full of nothing but "What if's".

After I returned from Israel, I would sometimes flip open my phone and just look at Ziva's name listed in my contacts. But I would never call. I was always stopped by her anger, my anger, her regret, my regret. I would wait for her to decide when, or even _if_, she was ready to move toward reconciliation. But there was never a reply.

Then came the Two Words. And everything changed. Sometimes I flip open my phone and just look at Ziva's name listed in my contacts. And I do call. I call, and all I hear is the cold, robotic voice of the machine-woman saying, "We're sorry. The number you have dialed is out of service, or the phone is out of range. Please try again lat-". And I always hang up before she finishes. Because there is no "later", and I cannot "try again." There's only silence after I close my phone. There are no replies coming from her, and I'm no longer hoping for any either.

* * *

The torture has dropped in its severity. Nonetheless, it continues to come like clockwork, the only thing I can count on to regularly occur. Today, however, was different somehow. Through my muddled mind, I sense a preoccupation among the men. They are distracted with something else, not that I can hardly complain. I take it for what it is worth as I lie on the floor, staring at the dust motes as they float through the air.

As I dazedly watch the swirling particles, I think of the commotion I heard outside earlier. Muffled yells, muffled impacts. None of it particularly distinguishable from the whistle of the wind as it passed over the forlorn structures in the middle of this lifeless desert. Perhaps it was just a scuffle amongst the men here. It is inevitable that fights occur from time to time. They are stuck here almost as much as I am, though, unlike me, they have ways to channel their frustrations. And these means mainly concern me.

There is silence for a while. Some sounds drift my way from another part of the building, but I cannot discern any of them. It is only meaningless noise to me as I drift in and out of consciousness.

Some time later, I hear a yell of frustration from another cell. And this voice I _do_ place. By now, I could differentiate Salim from the rest. And I have heard this ill-contained outburst before. Many times before as I refuse to give the information he so very much wants. A very brief moment later, and he bursts through the door, his face livid. I quickly brace myself, put up my walls in defense for what I know is coming.

But this is a day of surprises. He does not kick or punch me. Instead, he roughly jams a black bag over my head and drags me to my feet. He pulls me along by my shoulders as I heedlessly follow. There is only blackness as I am steered toward what I can only think of as a welcomed or dreaded release from this place. I cannot decide.

* * *

Salim's been having his fun with me for the past few hours. I've had an injection and plenty of fists to my jaw. I've become his own personal punching bag for now. And I'm pretty sure he's been enjoying it. He likes watching me squirm as I fight the effects of the truth serum he's given me. And it burns like hell.

But as I take his beatings and spill my guts, I take solace in the fact that he'll be dead soon. _If_ everything goes to plan. I've been lucky; I was expecting worse, but so far, Salim's been rather..."civil" with me up to this point. But I'm about to destroy that civility, and I'm going to enjoy it. It's time to see how well he takes his own mistakes.

"You had to have your Caf-Pow, didn'tcha?" Score one for me. Now he's really angry. At least he didn't throw that bottle at me or McGee. He storms from the room, giving orders that I can't understand. I briefly speak to my partner in Salim's absence. I just hope I've made the right call; this can turn out really badly if I'm not careful.

Salim returns, only this time, he's not alone. He drags in a petite, somewhat-short frame with a bag over their head. It couldn't be...

* * *

I feel myself pushed into a worn, wooden chair, creaking as my slight weight settles on it. Salim is giving an ultimatum. But to whom? My numb curiosity from earlier has turned into sheer bewilderment. This is well out of what would be considered "The Norm" for me here. Light floods my eyes as the bag is unceremoniously pulled from my head, returning me to this world at least once more.

* * *

She sits there, a look of confusion and amazement on her face. A reply at last.

He sits there, a look of confusion and amazement on his face. A reply at last.

**A/N--Surprise, this is actually _not _a oneshot; I plan on writing another chapter to this because the song conveys both regret and hopefulness. This first chapter is obviously the Regret, so the next chapter will be the Hope. I'm not sure when I'll be able to write it (work's getting in the way), but hopefully I'll have it posted sometime within the next few days. Until then, please review, and happy reading :)**


	2. Hope

**A/N--I have to apologize for the lateness of this chapter. I know I said I'd have it up in a few days, but it's been one crazy week, so thank you for being so patient with me. So, now that that's out of the way, let's talk "Hope." This chapter centers on three distinct scenes from "Reunion": The scene in the bullpen right after McGee leaves for his Nutter Butters, the scene in the restroom, and the final scene of the episode. To me, this is probably _the _most important episode as far as Tony and Ziva's relationship is concerned. I believe this is the turning point for them, and they're on the current course they're on because of what happens here. So without further ado, I give you Part Two.**

He is giving me that look again, and I stare right back at him. My mind drifts to that saying, "The eyes are the windows to the soul." Of all of the proverbs and metaphors that I have come across during my time in America, this one I truly believe and understand. And right now, I can see something of the soul within him.

It is complex and murky, and at the moment, I cannot comprehend its full extent or meaning. But the old ways of understanding are slowly returning, and as I continue to peek through those windows, I sense...caring? But more importantly, I see in him a nervousness, an uncertainty that I do not remember being there.

I realize as we make a weak attempt at the banter we once employed with perfect ease, he is being very careful, guarded. With me and with himself. Though he is trying so very hard to hide this from both of us, I can see that he is having some trouble trusting his own actions. Neither he nor I can quite choose the right words to say.

There is an awkwardness now that never existed before. And I do not quite know how to correct it. His desk phone rings, and I sense irritation in him as he quickly answers it. Secretly, though, I am relieved and thankful for the interruption. He speaks briefly and, to my surprise, hands the phone to me.

Of course. It is Abby. I had lost track of time, forgotten that I had promised to meet her down in the lab. I rush an apology, and return the phone to his waiting hand. And with it returns the clumsiness between us. We make an agreement to see each other later, and I turn towards the elevator. As I leave him behind for the steel box, I wonder if things will ever truly be "normal" between us again. The elevator sinks, and so does a part of myself.

* * *

Now there's no time at all. Before, I had nothing _but_ time, empty time. But when you need it most, it never comes to you. There was no time on the plane. No time in the week separating then from now. No time even within this moment.

She's staring at me like she used to, but I can tell it's forced. It isn't natural like it was before. There's something in the way, and we both know what it is. But it stays there because neither of us can bring it up. So our unnatural conversation tries to avoid stepping on it.

I attempt a jab at her lack of tact and suddenly realize _I'm_ the one with no tact right now. I apologize, and we're left with more awkward silence. My phone rings, and I rush to pick it up, a seemingly perfect way to fill the void.

Of course. It's Abby. I want to regain at least a little something of the conversation I was just having, so I try to brush the Goth off. But she wants nothing to do with me; it's my old partner that she wants to talk to. I give the receiver to her, and as she speaks, I wonder how our forensic scientist even knew her target of interest was standing by my desk.

The call ends, and I return the phone to its rightful place. She needs to leave. Again. We exchange Good-byes, and she disappears behind the stairs to access the lower levels of the building. And I'm left standing there, chastising myself for a failed attempt at Normal. I heavily fall into my desk chair and roll back, allowing my head to rest on the cold steel of the filing cabinet behind me. There's still no time available for us to create something workable again. That conversation might as well've been total silence for all it was worth. Because we both failed at finding our own meaningful replies.

* * *

It must be now. This is the only place I can catch and talk to him in private. And I need to set things straight again. There are too many things left unsaid, and they are just making everything between us uncomfortable and putting us somewhat ill-at-ease around each other. I have to make things right. So the Men's Room will have to do for now.

I try to start everything by joking with him, but I soon realize he is having none of it. And this is really no time for playing around. After an apprehensive pause, I decide to just attack this head-on. No more jokes. No more walls. It is time to just talk. Time to explain. Time to apologize. This is the time to say what needs to be said. Because he deserves it. And as I talk, I can see that he has been wanting to have this conversation almost as much as I have. We have been _needing_ this conversation for a very long time now.

Because he is my partner. Because he is the man I can trust. Because he is the man that came for me and pulled me from the desert. Because he has always been by my side, defending my back. And because out of the many men in my life, he is one of the precious few that I can trust to always be there. To protect me when I may not be able to fight. And I cannot express all of these things enough. Over the years, he has become very important to me, and I do not want to lose him. Especially not in the way I subjected both of us to.

He then apologizes to me, but I will not, _cannot_, allow him to. This is not his fault, nor should he feel like it is. So I turn the apology on him with everything that I can give. But to me, this is not enough. Unsure of whether or not I am making the right call, I tentatively lean in to kiss him on the cheek. And with that kiss, I try to express to him all that I cannot say. All that is far too big or important for words. All of the apologies, all of the trust. All of the _gratitude_ that I have for him. It is almost nothing, but I hope that with this small gesture, he understands.

* * *

She comes to me in the Men's Room. Again. She always knows how to catch me with my pants down. And I smirk to myself because this is part of the old side of her that I know. Still, I also know what's coming, and I don't want to take up this much-needed conversation with jokes. There's a time and place for everything, and right now, I sense that it's my turn to just listen. Because I need to. We _both_ need to be here for this.

And I can see that she's baring her soul to me. And I know this isn't easy for her, admitting past mistakes or even just opening up so intimately to someone. But I only coax her along when she needs it. She and I both know that my role as a silent listener is crucial here. And I listen to what she has to say.

Because she's my partner. Because she's the woman that I can trust. Because I know that I can put my life in her hands, and she would protect it no matter what the cost. And, to use her words, _she_ has always had _my_ back. She's always defended my Six, and she's always been there when I need her most. And she's the one woman I know that I can completely rely on.

I think of everything we've been through together, the good and the bad. And I especially think of this past summer and what I sent her into. And I apologize for this. Because as much as she's saying it's her fault all this happened, I know I'm to blame too. Neither of us was faultless in this whole mess, and I need her to know that I accept the responsibility for the part I played. But she doesn't want my apology and says sorry to me instead. And I understand where she's coming from. And she needs to have this, so I don't argue.

Then she floors me. I see her moving forward, and she gently kisses me on the cheek, completely catching me off guard. If there's one thing to be said about her, she's a woman of surprises. Yet, it's such an intimate gesture of conviction and tenderness from her, I really don't know how to respond. So to keep things safe, I choose a dumb impassiveness. But she seems to accept this, and as she pulls back, she briefly lays her hand on the side of my neck, and inwardly, I cannot be happier with the restoration of some physical contact between us. And I feel we've finally cleared the air.

* * *

It's amazing how two words can change everything. Two words can completely rebuild your world and the hope you had once lost. "Ziva's here." She was here. And both his daily life and hers begin to slowly return to a sense of what's "normal".

She sits at her desk, he sits at his. She stares at him, he pretends not to notice. There are no words to be heard, and there is only a hush that settles over the immediate area. But there are replies. They are replies of silence, discreet glances and quiet communication between two sets of eyes, now only separated by two desks and a small patch of carpet.

**A/N--I have to thank all those who have reviewed and continue to review my pieces**. **This was my first multipart (as small as it was), so I hope you all enjoyed it. Until next time, happy reading :)**


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